


Falling

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Suicide, Bottom John Watson, Complete, Crying, Declarations Of Love, Drama, Erections, Expression through music, First Time, Greg is a good friend, Hint of Mystrade, John is a Mess, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Music, Mycroft To The Rescue, Resolved Feels, Surprise Ending, Top Sherlock, but not, failed suicide, rebuilding friendship, sherlock is "dead", so much crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “You don't want to do this.” Mycroft promised, “Dr Watson.”“My name is John.”“John.” Mycroft breathed, “Please.”





	1. Flying not falling

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I've been working on for a long time and have never been able to finish. I put it on Tumblr for a bit of a boost and was surprised at how well it went down! So I thought id post here. 
> 
> The issue I have, is that I have no idea how to continue the story. I don't know how to end it, or how to have them get together. I'm happy for any suggestions in the comments.
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kittiekatthings)

In a way, John thought it was the closest you could come to flying. Without the aid of parachutes or man-made gadgets to catch you as you hurtled towards Earth, this was freedom. This was simple and beautiful and uncomplicated.

Until you hit the ground of course.

John had seen what that had done to other people. His spell in A&E and the first responder on scene as a helicopter doctor had showed what happened to the human body when it had fallen from a height and all of what made a person a person was now on the outside. That had been a detached environment, you go, do your job and then leave when the coroner arrives to scoop up what's left of the poor bastard who felt he had no other option.

He had seen it himself when Sherlock had fell. Seen the thick, copper smelling blood fanning out like a halo around Sherlock's curls, clumping them together.

“Let me through, he's my friend.”

But Sherlock Holmes was more than that. He wasn't just a friend. He just didn't know it.

John stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the exact spot where Sherlock had breathed his last and wondered if there was much pain. If you could feel the cracking of your skull as it hit the pavement at speed.

He guessed he would find out.

Shuffling closer to the edge, John inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky with a tilt of his head and a closing of his eyes.

_Life is very beautiful._

Apparently one of Henry VIII's wives had said that before she was beheaded. John supposed that's a decent enough phrase for your last words as any.

John squared his shoulders and was about to step over when a voice from behind him interrupted his thoughts.

“What are you doing?”

Mycroft. Why did he always have to get involved.

“Having a spot of tea. Want some?” John responded, too sarcastic but he wasn't really in the right mindset for comedy.

“Bit obvious isn't it?” Mycroft asked, walking closer and standing within arms reach.

“I tried all the others but you stopped me.” John sighed. He had tried various other methods but Mycroft or his team always got there first. Pills were pumped from his body, nooses cut, wounds stitched. His gun had been confiscated by Greg fairly soon after Sherlock's funeral.

“You don't want to do this.” Mycroft promised, “Dr Watson.”

“My name is John.”

“John.” Mycroft breathed, “Please.”

“I can't keep doing this.” John admitted, looking down at the ground. “I can't keep going on without him.”

There was silence, a long, lingering heartbeat before a needle and plunger was pushed into his neck and a soft voice whispered “I know.”


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because I miss you.” John admitted without pause, “I miss you so much that it physically hurts and I want it to go away.”
> 
> Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head “John…”
> 
> “Can you hold me? Just for a little bit?” John asked softly, unhooking his IV and shuffling across his bed to create a small space for Sherlock “Just so I know what it felt like.”

Beeping

A weight in his head, drugs then, probably something to keep him sedated. A pressure on his hand, someone holding it. Mrs Hudson probably judging by the thinness of the skin. John didn't open his eyes, remained silent whilst life went on around him. He could hear the bustling of the hospital around him.

“Forgive me.”

He was dreaming. That sounded like Sherlock. What medication did they have him on?

“Mycroft told me.”

“Pie-croft.” John smirked, opening his eyes and turning to look at Sherlock who was smiling with tears in his eyes.

“I didn't know it would be so difficult. To be away.” Sherlock admitted, he looked tired. Drained. John wanted to care for him and feed him up, he looked too thin. Why did his dream Sherlock look this unhealthy?

“Is this a dream?” John asked, fighting to sit up in his hospital bed and noticing that his other arm was strapped to the bed. “Sherlock?”

Hesitation, John could see it in Sherlock's face before he nodded “It's just a dream.”

“You look unwell.” John whispered ceasing his fight to sit up and instead twisting his hand so he could stroke the underside of Sherlock's wrist “You're not eating.”

Sherlock seemed shocked at the tenderness of the gesture but soon relaxed into it, practically melting “There isn't much good food where I am.”

“Oh.” John hummed, frowning until his brows met in the middle “Oh you mean… right. I doubt you're in heaven and you don't look burnt for hell.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly and then looked away avoiding the topic “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“Because I miss you.” John admitted without pause, “I miss you so much that it physically hurts and I want it to go away.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head “John…”

“Can you hold me? Just for a little bit?” John asked softly, unhooking his IV and shuffling across his bed to create a small space for Sherlock “Just so I know what it felt like.”

Sherlock looked on indecisively before nodding once and settling onto the bed, curling around John's side so he was the big spoon, Sherlock let his head rest on John's head and his hand rest on John's stomach. “I didn't know you would miss me this much.”

“I love you.” John whispered, moving his hand to squeeze against Sherlock's own “I love you and I miss you.”

“I've missed you too.” Sherlock admitted, nuzzling into John's hair and inhaling deeply, storing the scent away “You cannot know how much I've missed your presence John.”

“Then hold me like this and let's pretend that this is real.” John said, feeling his eyelids feeling heavy “Just for a moment.”

“Forgive me, John.” Sherlock said directly into John's ear, kissing his temple gently.

* * *

When John awoke it was to an empty hospital bed and an Irish nurse smiling down at him as she fiddled with his various machines. John blinked, looking around for Sherlock and then letting his head hit the pillow with a feeling of utter depression.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.” The nurse smiled kindly, “you're back with us.”

John turned his back to the woman to hide the traitorous tears which spilled down his cheeks. The nurse looked on sadly before turning and leaving the room where Mycroft stood, stoic as ever as he looked across the various wards with a hint of distaste at the various sounds and smells.

Striding into an isolation ward which had been taken over as his base of operations, Mycroft sat down and placed his briefcase and umbrella to one side before sighing “This isn't going to end well… you are aware of that?”

“Of course I am, I'm not an idiot.” Sherlock scoffed, visibly shaken by his encounter with John “Why did you not tell me he was in such a sorry state?”

“Would it have helped?” Mycroft countered, his eyes focussing in on Sherlock “You have a job to do.”

“It's almost complete. Only a small cell left which your operatives can finish by themselves. I'm needed here, Mycroft. John needs me.” Sherlock pleaded, feeling flayed open.

“And how do you propose to explain your absence? _Surprise! It was all an act! I'm alive really_ ” Mycroft said sarcastically “The man has attempted to end his life no fewer than six times.”

Sherlock's bottom lip wobbled before he turned away and stared out of the window into the bleak London weather “He needs me, and I'm staying.”

* * *

John spent the majority of the day dozing, desperate to find Sherlock in his dreams but always waking alone and wet-cheeked when the detective didn't materialise. It wasn't until he had been visited by the doctor who put something into his IV drip that John fell asleep and blinked awake to find Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed.

“You're here.” John said, a beaming smile breaking on his face “I've looked for you everywhere.”

Sherlock smiled and reached out to take John's hand again “I can only come occasionally.”

“Oh.” John nodded, frowning but understanding that he wasn't exactly sure _how_ Sherlock was here but thankful none the less “I'm glad you're here.”

Sherlock stroked the inside of John's wrist and tilted his head “How do you feel?”

John huffed and rolled his eyes, his dream Sherlock was for more considerate than the real one ever was “I'm fine. I have – moments. When you're not here but I don't want to – well, you know.”

Sherlock brightened at the comment and smiled shyly “Good. The world needs John Watson.”

“John Watson needs Sherlock Holmes.” John responded with a deep ache in his chest.

Sherlock dropped his head and shook his head “I'm such a fool.”

“Probably.” John agreed, taking Sherlock's hand and putting it to his mouth to kiss “But it doesn't matter to me.”

“You have to stay here a little while” Sherlock explained, “They're monitoring you.”

“That's okay” John smiled, in no way bothered at the thought of a protracted stay in this place if it meant that Sherlock could visit.

“It's – a secure ward. You won't be able to escape” Sherlock frowned, “You hate the hospital”

“But you'll be here… sometimes?” John asked,

“As often as I can be” Sherlock nodded quickly,

“Then I'll stay here”


	3. Count to ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don't feel crazy” John admitted quietly, “I mean… I must be, because I'm talking to you. And you're dead. But I don't feel any different.”
> 
> “John...” Sherlock began and then trailed off, Mycroft was right, how could he explain this to John?
> 
> “I can't wait to go home, get into your bed” John smiled, curling his finger around and around.
> 
> “My bed?” Sherlock asked, blinking,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thats it! Please give me any thoughts/ideas for me to finish this story as I've grown to love it.

Their meetings continued on a regular basis. Sherlock always visited at least once a day, sometimes for half an hour, sometimes for mere moments. It seemed that Sherlock only appeared when John was sleeping, he had never seen the detective… or the spirit of the detective arrive. He was always just _there,_

It was John's fourth day at the hospital that Sherlock appeared somewhere other than his bedside. John had been taken to the day room, the large TV on the wall was playing softly and some other patients milled around the room. John had retired into a comfortable chair, nodding off in the coziness before his military training suggested somebody was close. Flicking his eyes open, John was pleased to see Sherlock sitting on a smaller chair, sitting opposite him in a parody of their set up back at home.

“Hello” John grinned, pleased and incredibly calmed at Sherlock's presence.

“Hello John” Sherlock replied,

Sherlock looked drawn and tired and John immediately began to cluck at him, “You don't look well.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock frowned and then sighed “I dislike seeing you like this”

“Me?” John answered with an answering frown and a dismissive shake of his hand “I'm fine. I'm alright. I'm here with you”

Sherlock seemed cowed by that and he looked around the room. It was obvious that it was a psychiatric ward, despite the hospitals best attempts to hide the true purpose, but John seemed completely oblivious as he continued to look over at Sherlock.

“Did I ever do anything to make you unhappy?” John whispered, “You know… before? When you were here.”

Sherlock bit his lip “Never” he admitted, “You made me incredibly happy. I'm incredibly blessed to have you as my friend”

“Id have loved you properly, you know?” John said sadly, quietly and broken with emotion “If you had let me. If you didn't -- ”

Sherlock looked down at the floor, his eyes glistening with tears “I'm sorry”

Suddenly, Sherlock was looking up, his eyes moving side to side rapidly “Close your eyes”

“What?” John answered “Why?”

“Close your eyes and count to ten” Sherlock whispered in response, watching John hesitate for a moment before his eyes fluttered closed.

“One...Two...Three” John counted, reaching to five before he felt the soft pressure of Sherlock's lips against his own for a mere second before there was nothing more. Shaken, John continued to count and opened his eyes, noticing that Sherlock was no longer in the chair, or in the area.

Looking around the room, John scoffed and sat back in his chair. He'd officially lost his marbles now. He had just kissed a ghost… or a hallucination. He wasn't sure which Sherlock was but it felt so – real.

* * *

Outside the ward, Sherlock slid his back against the wall as he hid from a pair of nurses who had started their rounds. He had managed to steal an identity card to get him into the ward from one of the doctors who was having a rather distracting domestic with his wife on the phone. Slipping the keycard back into his pocket, he slipped out of the ward and walked slap bang into his brother's chest.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft seethed, glaring at Sherlock “Please – Please tell me that you haven't been visiting Doctor Watson?”

“And what if I have?” Sherlock responded, pulling himself up to full height “There is no law against it”

“Sherlock” Mycroft sighed, “John is sick. He's – grieving for you. How can he be expected to do that when you're there?”

“He thinks I'm a hallucination” Sherlock scoffed “he doesn't think I'm real”

“And how exactly do you expect to explain this behaviour?” Mycroft asked, shaking his head and looking exasperated

“I – I will think of something” Sherlock blustered, attempting to push past Mycroft only to be stopped by his brother stepping in the way “Desist. Move,”

“No.” Mycroft answered, “Sherlock, this is cruel. Even for you. John is ill. Very ill.

“I'm making him better!” Sherlock shouted, startling a few people around them “Why don't you understand that? He's happy when I'm there.”

“This isn't the first time?” Mycroft asked, genuinely surprised and then disgusted “Sherlock, what have you done?”

“I'm keeping an eye on him. Like I asked you to do.” Sherlock snarled,

“I did” Mycroft replied with a dark glint in his eye “Each time he tried to end it, I was there. Who do you think was the first to purge the pills from his system? Hmm? I got vomit on my shoes from sticking my fingers in his throat. I've cared for John Watson whilst you were away, and will continue to do so whilst he's an inpatient. Because you cannot be trusted not to make the situation worse”

“How can it be worse?” Sherlock cried out again, gesturing dramatically “He's in a psych ward! This brave, strong, proud man is now a shell of himself, sharing a day room with a man currently painting with his own shit, Mycroft! How can it be worse?”

Mycroft exhaled and shook his head “Yet again, you don't understand what you're doing. You're playing a dangerous game”

“I'm caring for my friend” Sherlock argued,

“Not anymore” Mycroft said, “You'll never get back into the ward. I won't allow it.”

Sherlock bared his teeth and lifted an eyebrow in challenge at his brother. He knew that he would take Mycroft down if he had too, because nothing would stand between himself and John Watson.

* * *

“I think they're going to release you at some point this week.” Sherlock explained, “You're healthy, they're going to arrange support for the flat. Have some crisis workers nearby.”

“Can you still visit at home?” John asked in a slight panic “Because you never have before and… and… if this is the only way I can see you then I don't want to leave.”

“I can come there, yes.” Sherlock nodded, “I couldn't visit you before because...well… I didn't know how.”

John nodded, he wasn't sure whether Sherlock was a ghost (or was it spirit? What is the politically correct term for a dead soul?) or whether he was some sort of mental manifestation of John's depression or psychosis but he didn't mind either way. If he was going insane, then it was easier with Sherlock.

Feeling more settled, John lay back on his bed and ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, it felt brittle and uncared for, something so unlike Sherlock's once beautiful curls. Sherlock nuzzled into John's touch and held his hand against John's, relaxing in the warmth of John's touch.

“I don't feel crazy” John admitted quietly, “I mean… I must be, because I'm talking to you. And you're dead. But I don't feel any different.”

“John...” Sherlock began and then trailed off, Mycroft was right, how could he explain this to John?

“I can't wait to go home, get into your bed” John smiled, curling his finger around and around.

“My bed?” Sherlock asked, blinking,

“Yes, I've been sleeping in your bed” John admitted with a shrug “at first it was because it smelled like you and I could pretend you were here. Then, it just became a habit”

“I don't mind” Sherlock whispered in response, “Whatever helps”

The pair lapsed into silence for a short while, the sounds of the ward around them ignored as they were cocooned together behind the door of John's private room. Sherlock relaxed enough to gently doze, although he was always aware of sounds. He knew he had another 23 minutes before the security did another round, and so he relaxed into John's touch. Nobody had ever touched Sherlock's hair before, well, nobody other than his mother but he didn't count that.

“What was it like?” John asked after a while, “before you worked out how to visit?”

Sherlock thought back to the hell of his undercover work. The outdoor sleeping and constant running from Moriarty's men, the ever surrounding threat of danger and death,

“Dark” Sherlock replied, “and cold. And – lonely”

“I felt that too” John responded, “The coldness, and the loneliness. People tried to help, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Mike but it wasn't the same. It wasn't like having you there.”


	4. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could smell you,” John commented, reaching out to touch Sherlock's cheekbones and finding them damp. “Whilst I slept. I knew you would be here.”
> 
> Meeting Sherlock's eyes was a mistake, John felt himself being torn apart by Sherlock's deductions.
> 
> “I'm not going to hurt myself,” John promised, wiping away another of Sherlock's tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now lovingly beta'd by MariaWASD who is a total babe. 
> 
> Apparently, I made her cry... sorry about that.

“And you're sure you've got everything?” Greg asked, lifting John's bag onto his shoulder as he picked up the smaller bag of medication which had been left on the bedside cabinet for John. “All the meds and everything?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” John sighed. The previous two days had been tense and annoying as he desperately tried to show the doctors that he was fit enough to go home. After long and arduous mental health assessments, the specialist had agreed and John was finally given permission to return to Baker Street.

Calling Greg had seemed the most natural reaction – unwilling to spend more time with Mycroft, John needed someone he could trust and who wouldn't ask ridiculous or probing questions as he drove them back. Lestrade had arrived in a jovial mood, slapping John on the back and immediately launching into a quick paced commentary on the most recent football match which John had missed. Thankful for his friend's calming presence, John immediately relaxed and allowed himself to be walked towards the carpark, biting off his identity wristband and throwing it in the nearest bin as he ducked his head to climb into Greg's messy patrol car.

“Sorry about the mess,” Greg commented, although he didn't seem particularly apologetic as he grabbed a stick of chewing gum and discarded the wrapper onto the floor. “Habit.”

“I'm just glad to be out in the fresh air,” John smiled, winding down the window and inhaling deeply.

“We're glad to have you back,” Greg smiled, reaching over to grab John's knee to give it a gentle yet obvious squeeze. “We missed you.”

Smiling shyly, John nodded his head and then exhaled. “Right, come on then. Get me home before I catch something from this skip you call a car.”

Greg barked a laugh and nudged John playfully. “Baker Street?”

“Baker Street,” John agreed, his heart fluttering.

* * *

Mrs Hudson had obviously been up in the flat as it was sparkling clean. The carpets hoovered and the dust swept with a hint of lemon furniture polish which immediately made John smile at the memory of bustling around the room with Sherlock. A bunch of pretty and bright flowers sat in a glass vase (obviously one of Mrs Hudson's, John didn't think they actually owned a vase) on the desk with a small card written in Martha's elegant swirling handwriting.

_ Visiting my sister for the weekend. _

_ I have my phone if you have need of me. _

  
_ It's so glad to have you back, John dear _

_ \- Mrs H _

  
John smiled at the message and turned around, watching as Greg pottered around the kitchen, putting together two cups of tea.

“You don't have to stay...” John said quietly. “I know you're busy...”

“Not that busy,” Greg laughed. “Bosses are still looking over my cases for mistakes or – whatever the hell they're looking for. I'm on admin duties.”

“Sorry,” John hummed, looking down at his rolled up sleeves. His inner arm was a patchwork of bruises from the various IV's which the hospital had put into him.

“Mycroft did some shopping, he's stocked the cupboards for you,” Lestrade commented as he lifted a pack of hobnobs from the cupboard.

“Mycroft did, eh?” John asked with an upturned eyebrow, walking to the kitchen and sitting down at the table while Greg continued to make tea. “Somehow I can't see him shopping for tinned beans up in Tesco.”

Lestrade laughed and shrugged. “Probably sent one of his lackey's. You know what he's like.”

“I don't know how you cope with him,” John smirked. “All prissy and straight-laced. Must be hell.”

Lestrade stiffened minutely before shrugging again. “It's – well, you know what the Holmes lads are like…were like…fuck. Sorry. You know what I mean,” he stammered, looking around guiltily at John.

“It's fine, don't worry. I'm not going to do myself in because you've mentioned his name. He's not Voldemort. You can say his name,” John laughed. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg watched John carefully before bringing the cups and biscuits to John at the table, sitting down Greg nursed his cup before speaking. “At first it was odd. I've never been with a bloke who was so powerful…so – well, like him. But he's not always like that. He's – quite sensitive really.”

John lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “Mycroft? Sensitive?”

“He cares about you,” Greg said in a rush. “About what you've been doing. He doesn't want you to die, John. He actually quite likes you.”

“I'm sorry if I've made life difficult for you,” John said honestly and with no sarcasm. “It's just – it's hard. It felt the same as it did when I was discharged from the army, you know?”

“Don't you ever apologise,” Lestrade said quickly and with feeling. “Don't ever feel like you need to explain or justify your feelings. I'll never ask you to do that, so don't feel like you have to.”

Blinking back tears at the words of his friend, John gulped down his scalding hot tea to try to push the lump in his throat back down.

“Thank you,” he whispered sadly, giving a sad smile before clearing his throat. “Right, enough of that. We'll have to hand in our British man card if we start talking heart to heart.”

Lestrade bit his lip and then nodded. “Okay, but don't even feel like you're a burden to us. Me or Mycroft. We want you to be okay.”

Looking over the lip of his mug as he took another drink of his tea, John felt bolstered by Greg's words. Perhaps he wasn't as alone as he believed.

* * *

Blinking sluggishly.   
The pull of the medication dragging him back down to sleep. The dose was nicely strong.

Turning his head in the semi-darkness of the living room, John caught a whiff of Sherlock's scent – the deep sandalwood based cologne he wore, the coconut of his shampoo, the wet wool of his coat after a case.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, too afraid to sit up and find the room still empty.

“I'm here, John,” Sherlock replied deeply, close to John's face.

Sitting up with a slight wobble of medicated haze, John let the blanket fall to the floor as he looked down at Sherlock who was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. Sherlock's long legs pulled up to his chin, turned half to face John's once sleeping position.

“You're here.” John smiled broadly. “You made it.”

“Yes.” Sherlock returned the smile but hid it slightly behind his knees. “I'm here.”

“I could smell you,” John commented, reaching out to touch Sherlock's cheekbones and finding them damp. “Whilst I slept. I knew you would be here.”

Meeting Sherlock's eyes was a mistake, John felt himself being torn apart by Sherlock's deductions.

“I'm not going to hurt myself,” John promised, wiping away another of Sherlock's tears.

“The medication is very strong,” Sherlock replied, blinking and then wiping his face on the wrist of his too big shirt.

“It won't be forever.” John smiled, running his hand through Sherlock's curls just as his belly began to rumble. “Oh… I was going to order Indian. Can you – are you able to eat?”

Sherlock wasn't sure of that answer. His entire stomach felt like it was being twisted and squeezed as he continued his charade, but he nodded. “I think so.”

“I'll get our usual.” John grinned happily, seemingly ecstatic that he could fatten Sherlock up – even if Sherlock wasn't actually able to digest the food he would be given.

* * *

An hour later both men were sitting at the kitchen table, the emptied cartons of curry and rice splayed out between them as they sat back in their chairs.

Reaching out his hand, John took Sherlock's larger hand into his. The veins stood out, a sea of reds and blues which John traced lovingly with his index finger, pushing down with a soft glance. “You feel so real.”

“John...” Sherlock sighed, looking away. This wasn't going to be good – John wouldn't be able to handle the truth, but Sherlock didn't want to continue living a lie. He didn't want to keep leaving John and returning to his shoddy, tiny flat by himself where he had to live in seclusion.

It wasn't fair.

He wanted to be with John. His John. The only thing in the whole of stupid London which made sense any more.

“Your brother and Lestrade are together,” John said in a rush, ignoring Sherlock's plea or obvious urge to speak. “I wasn't sure if you knew that. I don't know how long it's been going on.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Sherlock grimaced, sending John into giggles of laughter which seemed to echo around the otherwise empty flat.

God, Sherlock had missed that sound.

Before he left, Sherlock had wanted to record that sound. Keep it with him for the future when he was alone, but he hadn't had a chance. Moriarty had worked too quickly for him to devise a decent enough situation to make John giggle that way.

Feeling his heart flutter, Sherlock joined in with the giggles until both men were creased over the table, holding hands whilst they cried with laughter. Curry filled stomachs clenched and cramped as they laughed, no longer able to remember the real reason they were laughing – but instead filled with utter joy at once more being together.


	5. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why, Mycroft? Why did I have to go? Why didn't you save me?” Sherlock said in a garbled rush of emotion, slowly slumping to the floor and bringing his brother down with him. “I wanted you to save me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't felt this inspired about a story for months. I'm writing pages at a time so this shouldn't be too long before it's complete. There will be a happy ending but it has to get worse before it gets better.
> 
> TW Discussion of attempted suicide and vomiting.

His tablets made him sleep. That was the point, but John hated that he was being medicated. The proud army doctor in him, he supposed, as his head lolled forward only for him to fight against it.

“You're exhausted,” Sherlock commented, looking up at John from his position across the sofa.

They had moved to the living room after their food. John taking one end of the sofa, whilst Sherlock took the other. Legs folded, they held hands and simply looked at one another, talking mindlessly until John's tablets had kicked in and he began to fall asleep.

“M' not tired,” John grumbled unhappily but unconvincing.

“You need to rest, come on. To bed with you,” Sherlock teased, standing up lithely and fluidly to take John's hand and tug. “I'll stay until you fall asleep.”

“And will you come back?” John asked, voice high with a slight panic.

“When I can,” Sherlock promised, leaning forward to kiss John's forehead tenderly. “Come on, you need to get better.”

“‘Kay,” John agreed unhappily but allowed himself to be dragged forward into Sherlock's bedroom which had become his own. Stripping without shame, John climbed into bed in his boxer shorts and pulled the cover up to his neck, watching as Sherlock lay beside him fully dressed and on top of the covers.

Turning to his side, John placed his hand under his head and looked at Sherlock with sleepy, drooping eyes. Sherlock met his gaze and cupped John's cheek tenderly, smiling genuinely and with a small crease between his eyes, his chin going slightly crinkly.

“I love you, you know,” John mumbled, already dozing. “Quite a lot.”

John had mentioned his love for Sherlock before, in the hospital, but Sherlock had never returned the declaration. It felt wrong to tell John how much he was loved whilst he was grieving. Sherlock wanted the first time to be in person. Real person, not the hallucination he was acting.

“The first time was the hardest,” John whispered, eyes flicking to Sherlock. “The first time I tried to -- you know, I went to your grave. It’s nice, your grave...have you been?” he asked.

Sherlock silently shook his head, feeling the heavy throb of his heart.

“It’s nice, very tasteful,” John chuckled. “You’d hate it. It only has your name on, doesn’t wax lyrical about your achievements or anything.”

“I don’t need that…” Sherlock frowned, almost pouting as John continued with his speech.

“Anyway, I had kept some of my painkillers from my shoulder. I had a stash of them I never used, and I always forgot to get rid of them,” John said quietly. “So I took them with me and my hip flask full of the posh whisky you pinched from your brother. I thought that since I was going to end it, there was no point doing it with the cheap vodka we have.”

“John…” Sherlock whispered, reaching out to touch John more, almost pressing their entire front’s together until they were breathing in the same air.

“I took about sixty pills, it was hard. Your body doesn’t want to accept them. I think it’s aware in its own silly way. I wanted to do it - I wanted to die, but my body wasn’t ready. I forced myself though, pushed through the pain until I started going woozy. That’s when Mycroft turned up.” 

“What did he do?” Sherlock asked, eyes glistening.

John smiled. “I didn’t know he could fight…blocked all but two of my punches. I was impressed. The next thing I know I’m being bent over and he stuck his fingers down my throat until I was sick. Covered his posh shoes in my vomit.”

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock said again, unsure what else he could say. _What exactly is the reaction to give for this information?_

“They took me to hospital. Pumped my stomach properly and kept me in overnight. I spent most of the night screaming curses at your brother. I hated him. Worse than I hated you…” John blushed. “I know now that I didn’t hate you - not really. I just -- I missed you.”

John’s face crumpled in sorrow as he began to cry, reaching forward to grab Sherlock’s shirt. “I’d do anything for you to come home.”

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed, blinking back his own tears as he stroked up and down John’s back. “Go to sleep,” Sherlock whispered, leaning in to press a soft, chaste kiss against John's mouth. “I'll be here again soon. You need to rest.”

“Promise?” John asked, his blinks becoming longer and less aware as he struggled against sleep.

“I promise.” Sherlock nodded, kissing John once more before pulling back and simply stroking John's hair until the older man nodded off into slumber.

Once it was obvious that John was in a deep sleep, Sherlock climbed from the bed and straightened his suit. Inhaling deeply, Sherlock reached for the window catch which led him on to a small fire escape. Climbing down, it didn't take long before Sherlock was back on the ground and reaching for his hooded jacket which he wrapped around himself, pulling up the hood and walking quickly back to his bolthole to count down the hours until he could return.

 

* * *

Sherlock didn't bother to turn on the lights. He knew what to expect as soon as the entered his bolthole.

“Seriously, Sherlock?” Mycroft began, dramatically stepping out from the shadows, his mouth pinched in a moue of disapproval and anger.

“Go away,” Sherlock snapped, ripping off his jacket with a snarl.

“Are you trying to tip John over the edge?” Mycroft asked, standing in front of Sherlock. “What will he do when he finds out you've lied to him?”

Sherlock tried to ignore his brother, attempting to step aside only to be blocked by Mycroft. “Sherlock! This is serious!”

Stepping back, Sherlock twisted his body and punched his brother hard on the lip, watching it pop with a spurt of blood which was visible in the low light. A sick, angry eruption bubbled to the surface as he watched Mycroft bring a trembling hand to his split lip.

“This is your fault,” Sherlock seethed, anger radiating from him. “You're supposed to be the smart one.”

Mycroft watched as Sherlock launched himself at his chest, fists pounding against his ribcage with frustration – no longer wanting to hurt his brother, but instead to show his upset.

“I hate you,” Sherlock cried, hitting against the padding of Mycroft's jackets. “Why couldn't you save me? Why did I have to leave?”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft whispered, reaching for Sherlock's wrists. “Desist, please.”

“Why, Mycroft? Why did I have to go? Why didn't you save me?” Sherlock said in a garbled rush of emotion, slowly slumping to the floor and bringing his brother down with him. “I wanted you to save me.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft soothed, sitting open legged on the dusty floor of Sherlock's flat and allowing Sherlock to fall into the space, his face against Mycroft's chest as he sobbed and choked on his breath.


	6. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was alive.
> 
> Sherlock had come back and lied. Had pretended to be a manifestation of mental illness. Had made John feel like he was losing his mind, his sanity and everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... Prepare yourselves. This is a tear-jerker.

“I'm in the shower,” John called out, the bathroom door was open but the main door to the flat was locked. He wasn't surprised however when Sherlock pushed open the door into the steamy room, his cheeks flushed and his eyes focused on the floor. “Sherlock, you don't have to be modest. I don't mind that you can see my arse,” John laughed.

Sherlock huffed a laugh in response and walked to John's side, pulling off his jacket he hung it against the door before rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the sponge and soap. Lathering it up, Sherlock began to slowly wash John's back, using the perfect technique and pressure to feel good as John dipped his head under the shower.

The closeness was perfection, and Sherlock could feel himself growing hotter and more aroused as John twisted to rinse off the suds, giving Sherlock a full and uncovered view of John's front. His scar vivid pink against his pale skin, the silvery scar of his appendix surgery and then below that, in its full glory, John's cock stood semi-hard and radiant in the light of the bathroom.

Sherlock licked his lips as his eyes were fixed entirely on John's cock, mapping out its size and girth and comparing testicle size to the average Caucasian male before John cleared his throat with a grin. “Bit not good that, staring at your mate's knob.”

“I've never seen one before,” Sherlock admitted before blushing, “Well, I have. Corpses and what not. And a man flashed me once in a drug den but I've never been so close to one. A real one. A living one I mean.”

John blinked and then giggled. “Your mind is odd.”

“I've been informed.” Sherlock blushed crimson, taking a step back from the side of the bath before rubbing the back of his neck with his still damp hands, shivering at the cool droplets which dribbled down his shirt collar.

John smiled when Sherlock handed him a towel, wrapping it around his waist as he stepped out of the bath and headed towards Sherlock's bedroom. There was nothing sexual in his walk, nothing alluring but Sherlock found he couldn't help himself as he followed through the doorway, standing still and watching as John began to dry himself.

“I'm going to do something now...” John warned after a few moments in which he spent psyching himself up. “And it might be weird…but fuck it.”

“What?” Sherlock blinked, barely able to keep upright when John stood on his tiptoes and pulled Sherlock in for a deep, blisteringly hot kiss which made the detective dizzy. Grabbing onto John's arms, Sherlock almost buckled as he let himself be pulled under by John's lips.

It didn't take long before both men were licking their way into one another’s mouths, not fighting for dominance, but simply tasting and feeling the arousal between them as John reached around Sherlock's body and clamped a hand onto his plush buttock, pulling Sherlock closer for them to rut together, Sherlock's silky trousers to John's slightly chafing towel.

“I want to take you to bed...” John whispered, pulling back and eyeing up his best friend. “Is that something you can --”

“Yes,” Sherlock said immediately, nodding rapidly and wrapping his long fingers around John's cheeks to pull him back in for another deep, lingering kiss as he walked them backwards until John's legs nudged against the bed frame.

Without a moment’s hesitation, John laid back on the bed and held out a hand, beckoning Sherlock down on top of him. Sherlock bit his lip,  _ this is going too far  _ his brain screamed but he brushed it aside as he moved to settle on top of John, their groins meeting through thin fabric as Sherlock dipped down to kiss John, again and again, his left hand tangling in John's hair whilst the other tried to find John's hand to entwine their fingers together.

“I love you,” John moaned, wrapping his legs around the bottom of Sherlock's calves to bring him closer, feeling his still shower wet skin soaking into Sherlock's fabric due to the closeness. Not that either man noticed or cared as their kisses turned heated once more, their hips moving mindlessly to bring them pleasure. Steel hard erections pushed against one another, sending tingles of brilliant pleasure through their body as they moved and ground their hips together.

John was breathless with bliss as he pulled away from Sherlock's lips. “Undress. Now. I need you,” he moaned, his fingers scrabbling to Sherlock's belt and flies to pull down his trousers until Sherlock's tented underwear were visible. Next came Sherlock's shirt which was pushed from his shoulders and left to puddle on the floor in a heap of expensive silk.

Grinning broadly, John leaned up on his elbows to kiss across Sherlock's chest and neck, enjoying the salty taste of the man's sweat and the bittersweet taste of his skin. It all felt so real that it almost made John sob with desperation as his hands moved to rest on Sherlock's bum.

“John I...” Sherlock began only to be cut off by John's lips, his wandering hands cupping and caressing Sherlock's bottom before moving up to his waist and then to his shoulder blades before freezing.

Horror thudded into Sherlock's stomach at the realisation, just as John pulled back and blinked quickly. “What's on your back?” he asked.

“It's nothing...” Sherlock quickly replied, leaning back down to attempt to kiss John. “Forget it. It's nothing.”

“It's obviously not nothing. What is it?” John asked, pushing Sherlock up and then moving to the side of the bed to stand up. Gentle doctors fingers ran across Sherlock's shoulder blades before stilling with a gasp.

“Sherlock?” John said quietly, distress evident in his voice. “You...you didn't have these when you – when you...”

“I'm not dead,” Sherlock whispered, scrabbling to one side and reaching for John. “I tried to explain…I wanted to explain but – you – and there was – Oh god.”

John remained still, utterly silent before his head dropped forward. “You lied to me?”

“No,” Sherlock said forcefully. “No not lied…I just…John, I had to. I had to go, Moriarty was going to --”

“Fuck!” John shouted, grabbing the lamp from Sherlock's bedside table and throwing it across the room where it shattered with a loud clatter. “No! You absolute bastard! No!”

“John please, let me explain,” Sherlock begged, hurriedly doing up his trousers before standing in front of John. “Please…”

“You've done some terrible things to me, Sherlock,” John said with a growl, stalking around Sherlock with a dangerous, predatory scowl. “But this? This is cruel.”

“John please!” Sherlock cried, desperate now as he reached for John. “He had snipers on you. And on Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. I had to – I had to do it. Or you would have died.”

“Don't pin this on me!” John shouted, grabbing more of Sherlock's things and throwing them around the room. “You did this! This was your one-upmanship of Moriarty.”

Sherlock blinked and shook his head. “I couldn't care less about him. Not at all. I care about Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, but I care most for you. I love you, John. I love you.”

“No,” John gasped, his bottom lip wobbling as he blinked and felt two tears dripping down his cheeks. “No, don't say that. Not now.”

“I do,” Sherlock promised, getting down on his knees at John's feet. “I adore you, John. I would do anything to keep you alive. Anything.”

John seemed to think of this for a moment before sighing. “That's why Mycroft was always here. Why he always intervened.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, looking up from his position on the floor as tears flooded his vision. “I knew I would come back. Eventually. I needed you here when I returned.”

John looked down at Sherlock before shaking his head. “Get out.”

Blinking rapidly Sherlock gasped and reached his hand up for John. “No, please! If I could just explain.”

“Get out of my house, right now,” John said threateningly. “I don't want to see your face.”

“John…John please,” Sherlock begged, heart, pounding heavy in his chest as he panicked.

Removing Sherlock's hand from his skin, John took a step backwards and walked towards the bathroom. A final look back at Sherlock's slumped frame gave John a full view of Sherlock's shredded back, the long and fat jagged marks which could only come from a whip were fresh and red, obviously still painful and healing.

“I want you gone before I get back,” John said coldly before walking into the bathroom, grabbing Sherlock's jacket and throwing it out of the door before slamming it closed and slumping down until his bum was on the cold lino of the bathroom floor.

* * *

John had felt the sting of betrayal before. Exes had cheated, friends had stolen from him, his entire fucking childhood had been a betrayal with a drunken abusive father and a weak mother, but he had never felt betrayal like this before. An all-encompassing darkness which swept across his body as he sobbed hard, crying so roughly that he ended up gagging into the bathtub, voiding his stomach as he struggled to catch his breath.

Sherlock was alive.

Sherlock had come back and lied. Had pretended to be a manifestation of mental illness. Had made John feel like he was losing his mind, his sanity and everything else.

Feeling his cheeks and philtrum soaked with tears and mucus, John curled into a fetal position on the bathroom floor – uncaring that he was naked or that it was cold. The cold could barely be felt under the pain of dishonesty.

But niggling in the back of John's mind was a simple thought. A realisation that after all of his trouble and strife, after every heartache and agony he had felt, Sherlock was alive. He was back. It was everything that John had hoped for. Everything he had wanted in the three cold, dark years of loneliness.

John had pleaded with a god he didn't believe in to return Sherlock. Had attempted to barter his life for Sherlock's. John was a nobody, he didn't compare to the great Sherlock Holmes, and now suddenly Sherlock was back.

“I need to find him,” John sniffed, wiping his wet face on his forearm as he stood on shaky legs. 

Still wrapped only in a towel, it didn't take ten minutes for him to be fully dressed and out of the door, his legs pounding against the pavement as he headed towards the main road, eyes scanning left and right to find a Sherlock-shaped body.

Turning a hard left, John almost ran into a woman with a buggy but didn't stop. He couldn't. His brain wouldn't allow any other thought than that of Sherlock as he took small, uneven breaths into his burning lungs.


	7. Pictures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You lied to me, you deceived me, you made me feel like I had lost my mind. I need to build trust again…and it might not be easy,” John admitted. “But I feel it is worth it.”
> 
> “Of course.” Sherlock nodded, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I will follow your lead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Id hate to be Mycroft in this chapter.... he's going to be in soooooo much trouble. I'm not writing it, but you can imagine how pissed off Greg will be.

Mycroft's house was a sprawling semi-mansion in an upscale and private neighbourhood. John must have looked utterly mad as he ran into the road and slammed his body against Mycroft's door, banging with his fists and shouting loudly.

The door opened a few moments later by a dishevelled looking Greg, his cheeks flushed and his arousal pink body covered only with a thick robe. Blinking rapidly, Lestrade held John up to stop him falling through the doorway, shouting up for Mycroft immediately before turning his attention back to his friend.

“John? John, calm down, what's the matter?” Greg said kindly but forcefully. “You need to take some breaths. Have you – have you taken something?”

“Sherlock,” John gasped, sweat pouring from every pore. “Where is he?”

“What?” Greg blinked, looking at John like he was mad. “John…Sherlock's dead. He's not here. Should I…I'll phone the hospital. You were obviously released too early.”

“No. No, he's alive. He was with me. At the flat,” John said, attempting to push past Greg and not succeeding as Greg stood firmly in the doorway.

“John, he's not,” Greg soothed, a pang of agony for his friend.

“Gregory, it's quite alright...” Mycroft's voice from behind. The couple had obviously been involved in some afternoon affection judging by Greg's messy sex hair, but Mycroft looked as put together as usual in his shirt, trousers and waistcoat. “This isn't the way I imagined the evening would turn out but…Sherlock is alive.”

“What?” Greg gasped, letting go of John and almost sending him toppling over. “What do you mean?”

“He's not here,” Mycroft said, ignoring Greg for the moment as he addressed John. “He has a bolthole just the other side of Hyde Park. I'll have my driver take you over.”

“What do you mean he's alive, My?” Lestrade said, turning on Mycroft. “All that time? Three fucking years and you've not said a word?”

“It was imperative that the operation went without a flaw. We needed complete secrecy,” Mycroft said, although he did have the good grace to look sheepish.

“We need to talk. Right now,” Greg hissed under his breath at Mycroft before turning to John. “Are you going to be okay alone? I can come along.”

“No. No, I need to go alone,” John replied, nodding when Mycroft texted his driver and together they watched as the car pulled up.

* * *

The building in which Sherlock was staying was shabby and drab, the windows leaking and the lift out of order which forced John to rush up the three flights of stairs. It didn't take long before he was banging on Sherlock's door, listening for a reply. John couldn't hear anyone coming to the door so simply opened it, stepping inside and closing it behind him.

Sherlock's flat was barely the size of one room. A bed and small table sat beside a kitchenette with a small closet for a bathroom, but John hardly noticed the details. All he could see was Sherlock sitting with his back to the bed, his long legs spread out in front of him and his head in his hands as his shoulders shook.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, already feeling the emotion bubbling to the surface.

Sherlock lifted his head sadly, his face swollen and red from crying. Wiping his nose on his sleeve he met John's eye before his chin crumpled and he collapsed into more sobs, bawling loudly and without care.

John couldn't help it anymore as he stepped the three steps to Sherlock's side before throwing himself at his friend, grabbing him around the neck and pulling him into a bear hug which took both their breaths away. Sherlock howled with emotion, his hands scrabbling to reach any part of John as he cried, attempting to speak but unable due to the wet sobs.

“It's okay. It's okay,” John repeated over and over. “It's going to be okay. I'm sorry.”

“No – I'm – sorry,” Sherlock said in between sobs, unable to catch his breath. “I – didn't – know – how – to – tell – you.”

“Shhhh,” John soothed, resting his forehead against Sherlock's sweaty one. “I'm so sorry.”

“I – do – l-lu-love you,” Sherlock hiccuped, his fingers grabbing onto John's cheeks which were also wet. “I – did-didn't lie”

“Shhhh,” John whispered, wiping at Sherlock's cheeks before kissing him gently, their salty lips meeting for a chaste kiss. “I love you. Of course, I love you, how could I not?”

It had taken almost a full hour before the two men had climbed from the cold floor up to the rickety bed. John had not felt very optimistic that it would take the weight of both of them, but with careful movements, they finally lay beside one another, Sherlock's head on John's shoulder, their lips and noses almost touching as they breathed in the same air.

“There were three snipers,” Sherlock said after a long pause of silence. “One for Lestrade, one for Mrs Hudson and one for you. You would have all been killed unless I jumped.”

“I’d have rather it been me. Or you should have taken me with you,” John replied, stroking a hand up and down Sherlock's thin waist. “I could have helped. Supported you.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly, a frown causing the sweet crease above his nose. “No John. You – you could have gotten hurt. Or worse.”

“I’d have been with you though, you wouldn't have been alone,” John whispered, touching Sherlock's lip with his other hand.

“I wasn't alone,” Sherlock replied, blushing. “I had you. Well, not the real you. Mind Palace you. I talked to you a lot. The Mind Palace you…and I had, well, I took this.”

Rolling to one side, Sherlock reached for his wallet and picked out a small, tattered rectangle of paper. With careful touches, he unfolded it and handed it to John.

The paper was actually a clipping from one of the broadsheets, a photo of the two of them together after the Reichenbach case which had been snapped by a journalist and published just the day before Sherlock had jumped. The picture had been folded down the middle, cutting Sherlock out almost entirely and instead, it showed only John who looked up adoringly at his friend. The paper was worn and holy, torn in places and held together with a piece of tape which looked flimsy and breakable at any moment.

Laughing slightly, John shook his head and twisted to get into his own pocket, pulling out his own wallet and lifting the same picture. His was in better condition but was folded in a similar fashion only this time it showed only Sherlock.

“I wanted to keep you close.” John smiled. “I don't have a mind palace, so the picture had to do.”

Lifting his side of the picture, Sherlock smiled as John did the same, meeting them in the middle to make a slightly wonky, but full picture of them together.

“I'll still be annoyed,” John warned. “I might be angry or pissed off.”

“I understand,” Sherlock whispered, lifting John's hand to his lips to kiss gently. “It's completely understandable.”

“But losing you made me realise how much you mean to me. How much I love you, and I want to be with you, Sherlock. Fully. Properly,” John said as he ran his nose along the slope of Sherlock's cheekbone. “I never want to leave your side again.”

Sherlock began to cry again, nodding quickly in agreement. “It's too good for me. You're too good for me.”

Kissing his lover softly, John pulled back. “You died, hurt yourself and came back for me. You're worth everything I can give you.”

“Hold me?” Sherlock quivered, curling into John's side as he hid his tear tracked face.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and fell into silence, listening to the sound of traffic outside the window as they basked in their affection.

* * *

John carried Sherlock's small case into the living room of Baker Street and put it down beside the sofa, smiling when Sherlock tentatively stepped inside the threshold. “Are you sure this is what you want? I don't have to move back in…”

“Don't be an idiot,” John scoffed. “This is your home. Where you belong, not that tiny flat.”

Unwilling to cry again, Sherlock squared his shoulders and gave a nod. “I can sleep in your old room.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “When I said I wanted to be with you completely, I meant it. We can share the bed, we can share the flat. We can go back to how we were and rebuild our friendship.”

“Rebuild?” Sherlock asked quietly, biting his lower lip.

“You lied to me, you deceived me, you made me feel like I had lost my mind. I need to build trust again…and it might not be easy,” John admitted. “But I feel it is worth it.”

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I will follow your lead.”

“Good,” John huffed, suddenly back to nervousness as he looked over at his friend. “First things first, I want to make you something to eat as you're still far too thin, then I want to look at your back.”

Sherlock flushed and looked away from John. “That isn't – you don't need to take up my personal care again…and it's not as bad as it looks. Not really.”

“Sherlock...” John warned. “This will only work with complete openness. I want to see what you endured. You certainly witnessed enough of my suffering,” he said slightly bitterly.

“John… I've said I'm sorry,” the detective sighed, these new emotions completely overwhelming and confusing.

“I know…” John said as he held up his hands in apology. “So, I'll make some omelettes and we can talk.”


	8. Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The driver said he brought you back and --” Greg stilled at the doorway, looking in and seeing Sherlock for the first time in three years. There was stillness between them before Greg stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock for a hug, thankfully his arm wrapping around his neck, avoiding the wounds on Sherlock's back as Greg pulled him close.
> 
> “You bastard,” Greg laughed, shaking his head as he continued to hug his friend. “You utter bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one more mini-chapter ready after this one but then I'm still working on the following chapters. I know where I want them to go, and have lots of ideas, it's just a matter of writing them down. Please bear with me whilst I attempt to prise it out of my brain.

After their food, John watched as Sherlock carefully and methodically stripped his shirt and jacket, hanging them up on the back of the desk chair before lying down nervously on the sofa. His pale skin looked even more translucent in the watery light of the living room which only made the pink and red gashes brighter and more obvious.

John looked down at the wounds with tears in his eyes before he walked back to the kitchen and picked up his medical pack, washed his hands and returned to Sherlock's side to kneel on the floor beside the sofa. With gentle touches, John stroked his fingers across the unmarred flesh before reaching for the saline solution and some gauze.

“I was in Serbia,” Sherlock began, his voice so quiet that John could barely hear him over the sound of traffic and people outside the window. “I had been tracking one of Moriarty's men. Stayed under the radar for a long time by living in the open, staying in the woods and surviving. I hadn't slept for four days and I think I collapsed with dehydration and exhaustion because the next thing I know, I was being put into the back of a truck with something over my face.”

“Christ,” John whispered back, cleaning the worst and more open wounds gently.

“They kept me chained up and prisoner for three weeks. Not letting me sleep, not letting me eat other than rotten bread. Which I think actually saved my life…” he smiled despite himself, “the weevils which had taken over the stale bread gave me enough protein to cling to life.”

“And these?” John said as he carefully applied some antibacterial salve to the cuts. “How did these come about?”

John could feel the stiffening of Sherlock's body minutely before he relaxed and exhaled shakily. “The man in charge there decided that I was hiding information, that I wasn't informing him of everything I knew. They had already tried sleep and food deprivation and found that it didn't make me talk, so they turned to more violent approaches. Started simple enough with chaining me up so my hands were hanging from the air and pulling on my shoulders but when that didn't work – they upped the ante. They whipped me, for three days.”

John blinked back tears, unwilling to let Sherlock see him cry when the other man was being so brave in talking about his torture.

“It could have been worse though...” Sherlock continued. “The next step was sexual. Something which I wasn't looking forward to one bit.”

“Sherlock...” John breathed. “That's…”

“It didn't happen,” Sherlock insisted, turning his head to look at John with a broken, dazed look in his eyes. “Mycroft found me and got me out in time. Well – I got me out, he just managed to arrange transport and have me taken to Vienna where I could have medical treatment. I didn't hear from my brother until – well, you had been taken in to the hospital. Then I flew myself back to London and came straight to your bedside.”

John shuffled forward on his knees to reach Sherlock's face as he bent down to kiss him tenderly and softly. His clean hand stroking back the curls from Sherlock's face as they kissed. They lost themselves in the moment, simply sharing breath and tongues until a bang of the front door startled them and made Sherlock immediately tense, his eyes wide and worried as he looked at the door. “Who is that?”

“John?” Lestrade called out, taking the stairs two at a time. “John? Are you home?”

“I'm here,” John replied, helping Sherlock sit up on the sofa, still topless.

“The driver said he brought you back and --” Greg stilled at the doorway, looking in and seeing Sherlock for the first time in three years. There was stillness between them before Greg stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock for a hug, thankfully his arm wrapping around his neck, avoiding the wounds on Sherlock's back as Greg pulled him close.

“You bastard,” Greg laughed, shaking his head as he continued to hug his friend. “You utter bastard.”

“I don't...” Sherlock frowned, looking at John who was smiling.

“I can't believe you're alive. You absolute wanker. I'm so glad you're here. You dick,” Greg remarked.

“Are all of your comments going to include insults to me?” Sherlock grumbled but awkwardly returned the hug, patting Greg on the shoulder.

“Not always,” Lestrade promised as he pulled back, noticing Sherlock's back for the first time before looking away. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock insisted, waving his hand. “It's nothing to be concerned about.”

“How are you and Mycroft?” John asked carefully. “I'm sorry about last night…I didn't mean to – well, I probably caused a lot of trouble for you both.”

Lestrade frowned and then stood up, shaking his head. “You didn't do anything wrong. You're not the one who lied.”

“It was for a good reason,” Sherlock responded sourly.

“Yeah well, Mycroft explained but – I'm not speaking to him yet.” Greg shrugged. “I just think if you've had your cock in a man's arse, you should probably be open and truthful regarding secrets.”

“Oh good lord.” Sherlock grimaced. “Please, never speak about those things. I cant delete the thought quick enough.”

John chuckled but looked over at Lestrade who looked exhausted and drained. “I'm sorry though.”

“We'll get through it,” Greg said softly. “Probably. I just need a bit of time to – well, get my head around it.”

“I know.” John nodded in agreement.

“Of course you do,” the silver-haired man replied, before stroking the back of his neck. “Anyway, I just wanted to come over and see you for myself. You're still an arsehole but – I'm glad you're back, Sherlock. Really I am.”

“Thank you, Greg.” Sherlock smiled, knowing he had shocked both men by the correct use of Lestrade's name.

“Yeah well...” Greg blinked before heading for the door. “You know where I am if you need me. I'm back at my flat for a while…until me and Myc can sort everything.”

“You too,” John said with sympathy. “You know where I am if you need to talk.”

Nodding with a strained smile, Greg gave a soft wave before heading back downstairs and out into the cool air.


	9. Sun, Earth, Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What else did you compose?” John asked, watching as Sherlock hesitated, obviously nervous to answer.
> 
> “It was a set,” Sherlock replied quietly after some thought. “Each song representing something different. The one I just played I named you are the sun.”
> 
> “And the others?” John inquired.
> 
> “You are the earth…and the moon.” Sherlock blushed. “Three songs, each representing something --”
> 
> “What do they represent?” John asked.
> 
> “You.” Sherlock smiled shyly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right guys, this chapter is fully immersive! 
> 
> I need you to pull out your headphones, or just get somewhere quiet and listen to this link. It should be set up exactly to match the chapter, but some people will read faster but please do listen to it all!
> 
> Final chapter after this one
> 
> [Music](https://youtu.be/oxibNKCJicI?t=45s)

John exited the shower with a sigh, outside of the steam filled bathroom was chilly and he grumbled as he rushed to put on his robe which was in Sherlock's bedroom. Heading through the adjoining door, John heard Sherlock speaking to someone, something which immediately piqued his interest as he curled himself around Sherlock's bedroom door, looking out into the living room.

“I've missed you,” came Sherlock's deep baritone, shocking John into listening more intently. Perhaps Sherlock was on the phone? Who would he be speaking to?

 John's fears were immediately put aside when the first resonant sounds of the violin echoed through the flat, heartbreakingly soft and tender, it seemed to lighten up the whole atmosphere in the flat as Sherlock played a new composition.

Tying his robe, John headed down the hallway as quietly as possible, stealthily attempting to get to the living room to see Sherlock who was standing in front of the window, his violin and bow working in perfect harmony to create the most perfect sound John had ever heard.

Sherlock seemed to be in his own little world as he played to himself, head low as his hips swayed with each movement of his arm.

John reached the doorway to the living room and stepped inside, walking towards the arm of the sofa where he sat silently and watched as Sherlock poured out his feelings through music. The start had begun quiet and slow, deep and melodic but as it got further along in the composition, it started to become almost hopeful. John found himself listening to every note as though he could understand Sherlock's entire thoughts just through the music itself.

The overwhelming force of love which hit him was almost palpable and made John’s chest contract and his stomach flutter. John could taste the need and desire and desperate want as he looked at Sherlock’s thin frame silhouetted in the light from the window.

It couldn't have been more than three minutes before Sherlock slumped forward, brushing a hand over his wet cheeks before turning to John and stilling with an embarrassed cough. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“That was beautiful,” John whispered. “Did you compose it yourself?”

Sherlock hesitated before nodding yes. “It was just something that – I used to compose in my mind. In Serbia. It kept me sane.”

“What else did you compose?” John asked, watching as Sherlock hesitated, obviously nervous to answer.

“It was a set,” Sherlock replied quietly after some thought. “Each song representing something different. The one I just played I named  _ you are the sun.” _

“And the others?” John inquired.

“You are the earth…and the moon.” Sherlock blushed. “Three songs, each representing something --”

“What do they represent?” John asked.

“You.” Sherlock smiled shyly. “Your traits, I suppose. My memory of you. The sun is your friendship, the way you smiled at me and – accepted me. The way you believed in me without query. It's the sparkle in your eyes when you laugh and the sound of your giggle when you're happy.”

“And the earth?” John breathed, already feeling that his heart may burst.

“The earth was your protectiveness, your morals and your goodness. The fact that you could kill a man, and save a man in the same afternoon. It’s your bravery and your brokenness. Your flaws and your -- John-ness,” Sherlock answered with a soft huff of laughter at his inability to explain exactly what he wanted to say, lifting the bow to the strings to begin to play his second piece instead, his eyes fixed on John as he played.

This composition was slower, more melodic and without as many note changes as the previous one, but it felt different. The pieces melded together but this one was richer, warmer and John could feel each note flooding his senses as he listened intently.

John had always been able to tell Sherlock's moods by his music choices. Whether he was depressed or angry, giddy or impatient, he would choose his pieces carefully and play them perfectly. John would often listen in bed, just enjoying the music before he fell asleep, but this was different. This was almost like a part of Sherlock, like an extension of his psyche.

“A-And the moon?” John finally managed after Sherlock had let his bow drop to his side.

“The moon is the thought of coming back to you. Of seeing you again. Of long runs in the middle of the night and greasy takeaway at four in the morning. It’s the stakeouts, and the laughter, it’s Angelo’s and our cab rides. It’s us. Together again.” Sherlock grinned, his eyes crinkling. “This one is my favourite.”

“Play it for me,” John pleaded, “Let me listen?”

With only a moments hesitation, Sherlock positioned his arm correctly and lifted his bow to do slow and steady strokes. John watched as Sherlock's head fell forward slightly, his curls covering his eyes as he played.

This music was much lighter but filled with an expectancy and happiness which John was grateful for. John felt his eyes filling with tears once more as Sherlock lost himself in the music, giggling and laughing with delight as he ran his bow across the strings.

When the piece was finished, Sherlock slumped forward with a huff - almost as though he had been holding his breath. His emotions felt raw and completely drained as he nervously looked up for Johns’ reaction. “Well?”

“Let me take you to bed,” John said softly, eyes damp and heart full as he walked across the living room and reached out a hand to Sherlock. The detective hesitated for a brief second, nervous energy building between them before Sherlock turned to put his violin back into the protective case and closed the clasps reverently, unable to use the force he had once known on his treasured possession.


	10. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait… wait,” John begged, his eyes tightly closed.
> 
> “Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, his concern genuine and touching.
> 
> John nodded and bit his lower lip. “Just a bit intense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, followed by a tiny epilogue. 
> 
> This has been an amazing ride, and thank you so much to everyone for reading, commenting and giving me kudos. You're all wonderful.

After ensuring the violin was safely put away, Sherlock turned and took John's hand as the doctor pulled him towards their bedroom. Sherlock could feel the butterflies fluttering in his stomach as he allowed himself to be led by John, following without thought until John stopped them in front of the bedside.

“Have you…?” John asked, nodding towards the bed in an uneasy gesture. “Because it's fine if you haven't.”

“Haven't what?” Sherlock blinked. “I don't understand the question.”

“Jesus,” John giggled, lifting Sherlock's hands to kiss his knuckles softly. “Have you ever had sex?”

“Oh. That….right,” Sherlock huffed, feeling the moment his cheeks began to blush pink. “No. It's never really – come up.”

“Is that a sex joke?” John frowned before smirking and patting Sherlock on the bum. “Look, we don't have to do anything. But I’d quite like to get close with you. As close as we can be...”

“John...” Sherlock pulled back nervously, clearing his throat. “It's not that I don't want to – I definitely do,” he looked down at his largely distended crotch with a grimace, “I just – I find anal play incredibly overwhelming. The few times I've tried to stimulate my own prostate gland have forced me to realise that it can be a little bit – scary.”

“Shhh,” John whispered, stepping up on tiptoes to kiss Sherlock's lips gently. “You don't need to worry. I was hoping that – well – that maybe you would want to… do me?”

“In the anus?” Sherlock blinked.

“Yes,” John chuckled. “In the anus. Right up there, in fact.”

“Are you quite sure?” Sherlock frowned, looking confused.

“Never been more sure,” John promised. “Look, you've never done it before and – I've never been with a man before. This will be the first time we will be able to do something together that neither of us have experienced.”

“What if --” Sherlock trailed off, looking uneasy and nervous.

“What if what?” John asked, cupping Sherlock's cheek.

“What if I'm not good at it?” Sherlock replied quietly. “What if I hurt you?”

“Then I'll elbow you in the face,” John joked, unnerved when Sherlock suddenly relaxed and seemed more at ease.

“Yes. Good. Okay.” Sherlock nodded. “If I hurt you, just hit me and I'll know.”

“Or I'll just stop,” John said, rolling his eyes as he began carefully stripping Sherlock from his suit. Sherlock's skin was mottled with a dusky blotch trailing from his throat down his chest to his abdomen which John followed with his tongue and lips, pressing soft kisses along the soft skin until he reached Sherlock's waistband.

It didn't take long for John to unbutton and unzip the trousers, letting them fall to the floor as he turned his attention to Sherlock's upper thighs, kissing and rubbing his hands up and down the sensitive flesh.

Being so close to another man's genitals was unnerving, but John soon relaxed when he felt Sherlock's large hand wrap around the back of his neck, simply holding him and stroking his thumb up and down to the base of John's skull. Bolstered by Sherlock's touch, John kissed across the damp fabric of Sherlock's underwear, feeling the thick and hard bulge barely contained within. The scent of Sherlock's musk combined with a hint of sweat soon had John groaning, his hands moving to Sherlock's hips as he took the cloth covered cock into his mouth and began to suck through the material.

“Oh good lord,” Sherlock moaned, legs almost buckling as he used his free hand to grasp the bedside table to keep him upright. “John...”

Smiling to himself and adding more saliva to the already soaked pants, John looked up and met Sherlock's black blown eyes, maintaining his gaze as he ran his mouth up and down the shaft before reaching for Sherlock's underwear elastic. “Are you ready?”

Relishing in Sherlock's stunned but firm nod, John slipped the last hint of fabric from Sherlock’s body and looked down in absolute wonder at Sherlock naked in front of him.

He was beautiful.

John had never imagined that he would find another man’s penis beautiful but seeing Sherlock bare for the first time, open and trusting for his eyes only was enough to bring tears to his eyes once more. He shook away the sentimental wave of emotion crashing over him and moved to kiss against Sherlock’s hipbone. “You’re amazing,” he said against the warm skin under his lips.

Sherlock choked back a moan as John began kissing down previously untouched skin, over the coarse trimmed hair on his groin, John’s nose nuzzling into the creases which smelt so much like Sherlock, no added chemicals or aromas, just purely Sherlock.

His chin tapped against Sherlock’s erection; a trail of precome covering the tender skin beneath his chin which startled John into giggling before he wiped it away with his hand and continued to kiss, lower and lower until he was eye level with Sherlock’s cock.

John internally rolled his eyes as he realised that even Sherlock’s cock looked graceful and poised. Long and perfectly proportioned, uncut skin which had rolled itself back in arousal allowing the head to show in its fully flushed pink glory. The small slit at the head was leaking copious fluids, small beads travelling down the tight skin to drip and hang from the slit towards the carpet where John knelt.

Continuing to stare, John moved down to look at Sherlock’s low hanging balls which had drawn up tight to the body, leaving skin hanging below. With careful touches, John cupped and rolled Sherlock's testicles in his hand as he pressed kisses to both sides of Sherlock's hips, his tongue flicking out before he moved back down when Sherlock had relaxed.

Steeling himself, John stuck out his tongue and licked a trail up the side from base to tip, tasting the mixture of Sherlock’s skin, his musky precome and a hint of fabric conditioner and soap lingering from Sherlock's earlier shower. Sherlock gripped the bedside table tightly as the cool air hit his exposed genitals, the strip of wetness drawing the air, his voice became unsteady as he choked out, “Christ,” and looked down at John.

John smiled reassuringly towards his lover and repeated the movement, licking from base to tip before swirling his tongue around the glans where he knew he personally loved it most. His limited knowledge of blowjob techniques (learnt from his sisters Cosmo magazines and the TV show Sex and the City) failed him at the first hurdle, forcing him to improvise and think about what he personally preferred whenever somebody gave him oral. Using his hand, John gripped the lower half of Sherlock’s large prick and held it steady as he fixed his lips around the head and lathered the sensitive head with his tongue, flattening it and then pointing it to see which gave the best reaction.

Sherlock keened and bucked wildly, making John thankful that he had held onto the bottom of the throbbing shaft tightly so not to be choked by Sherlock’s thrusts. His other hand moved to hold the bony hips steady which Sherlock seemed to understand and relaxed under the gentle pressure as John attempted another sweep around Sherlock’s head. Sherlock gasped and cried out as John covered the entire tip with his mouth, fixing his lips around the head and adding suction whilst twisting and moving his hand on the base.

“Stop,” Sherlock choked out, scrabbling for John's shoulders and tipping his own head back so John could only see the underside of Sherlock's chin. Panting hard, Sherlock attempted to maintain control over his transport for a long moment before exhaling a shaky breath. “I was – it was too good. Too much.”

“It's alright,” John soothed, moving his hands to touch Sherlock's thighs again before struggling to his feet, hearing the awful pop of his joints as he stood. “Pretend you didn't hear that. I feel old.”

Chuckling slightly, Sherlock nodded. “I'll forget you're old, if you forget my almost premature ejaculation?”

“Done.” John smiled, leaning up to kiss the corner of Sherlock's mouth before pulling back and putting his hand on the belt of his dressing gown. With a bravery inducing inhale, John undid his robe and let it fall to the floor in a rush of heavy cotton, leaving him naked and flushed and extremely erect in front of Sherlock for the first time.

John watched as Sherlock ran his eyes over every inch of his skin, obviously deducing and cataloguing every pore and hair that he could see. John expected to feel on display, to feel like he was being pulled apart by the inquisitive detective but he didn't, if anything he felt more loved and far more secure than any time he had ever been naked with a partner.

“Lets get on the bed,” John suggested, taking Sherlock's hand and moving to kneel on the plush mattress before he settled on his back and pulled Sherlock down on top of him. Their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss as John ran his hands up and down Sherlock's sides, along his bottom and then up his scarred back, being as careful as he could be against the open wounds.

Tensing slightly, Sherlock pulled from the kiss and flicked his eyes away nervously, as though ashamed of his scars in such an intimate situation. Huffing, John immediately pulled Sherlock back down for another kiss, speaking against his lips. “Just relax. It's only me… just me.”

It took a few moments for Sherlock to relax, slowly and experimentally moving his hips in a circle to push his erection against John's. John smiled, but let Sherlock continue as his hands traced over every inch of skin he could reach.

“I thought about this,” Sherlock admitted. “Before I went, but also when I was away. When my body became – needy, I would imagine you like this. Under me. Flushed and beautiful and  _ mine.” _

John felt emotion flooding his senses once more and he reached up to trail a thumb across Sherlock's cheek, keeping his gaze as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind Sherlock's ear.

Silence fell between both men as John reached up to tangle his fingers into Sherlock's curls, pulling him down softly for a kiss which was slow and tender, filled with meaning and love and devotion and absolutely everything John could put into a single kiss. He wanted Sherlock to know exactly how he felt even if he couldn't put it into words.

John watched in amazement as Sherlock’s cheeks blushed in understanding, and he threw back his head as John moved his other hand down between their bellies, reaching for their erections which he grasped together and stroked softly, his mouth moving to kiss and suck at Sherlock’s neck and throat, travelling down his collarbone and to his chest and settling on his nipples.

Sherlock gasped at the sensations and desperately clutched the back of John’s head, holding him close as John orally stimulated the nubs of sensitive skin as his hand moved up and down the hard rod pressed against his own. Small, erotically charged pants of lust were escaping Sherlock as his hips moved rhythmically; attempting to create more of the perfect friction between his cock and John’s.

John began kissing up the long, pale neck and throat making soft humming noises of appreciation as he mapped out the texture of Sherlock's flesh against his lips and tongue. Sherlock grabbed at the bedding as John sucked and nipped a bruise onto the soft skin of his throat, marking Sherlock’s body with John’s own shape, marking him as his.

John began kissing up the long, pale neck and throat making soft humming noises of appreciation as he mapped out the texture of Sherlock's flesh against his lips and tongue. Sherlock grabbed at the bedding as John sucked and nipped a bruise onto the soft skin of his throat, marking Sherlock’s body with John’s own shape, marking him as his.

John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbones and his nose, watching Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed happily as John arched up for a kiss, their lips meeting softly and tenderly in an almost chaste kiss which was deepened by John licking Sherlock’s bottom lip before dipping into his mouth and licking around Sherlock’s teeth and the roof of his mouth.

Stroking his hand through Sherlock’s curls, John stared at the beauty of his lover wondering how he had become so lucky.

Sherlock’s eyes had widened and his cheeks had flushed pink with want as John kissed and caressed him with the intention of making him feel cherished and loved, to thank him for his sacrifices and the trauma he had endured to ensure John lived. To protect his friends.

“I want you,” John whispered, cupping Sherlock's cheek. “Get the lubricant from the top drawer please.”

Sherlock didn't comment on the gentle tremors in John's hand, and John likewise didn't mention the flash of anxiety which crossed Sherlock's features as he balanced awkwardly to pull open his bedside table and pulled out the half full bottle of lubricant.

“This isn't mine,” Sherlock huffed, twisting the bottle to look at the name on the front.

“I told you, I slept in your bed a lot when you were gone.” John smiled bashfully. “It used to – help. Being able to smell you, I mean. In the early days.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied, sitting back between John's open legs and looking down at the sprawled, flushed skin of John's chest, abdomen and crotch.

Sherlock unclicked the bottle and poured some of the gel onto his hands, warming it slightly before hesitating inches above John's body, looking a little lost and worried.

“With one hand stroke my cock,” John said softly, reaching to stroke up and down Sherlock's leg. It being the only bit of Sherlock he could reach, “and with the other slowly just – move down until you find my --”

“Anus?” Sherlock smirked, happy that he had information he could work with. Following John's words to the letter, Sherlock smeared some of the lube onto John's cock, wrapping his hand around the thick shaft and rubbing his thumb across the sensitive frenulum whilst his other hand carefully slicked up John's crease.

Sherlock's fingers quickly located the entrance to John's body and with a gentle shiver, Sherlock ran his fingertips across the furled knot, stroking his thumb in soft circles before cautiously dipping his fingertip inside.

“Oh,” John moaned, biting his lip and rubbing a hand across his own stomach seductively. Anal play was something he indulged in by himself, but had never considered how incredibly intimate and wonderful it could feel with a partner who he loved.

“Is it okay?” Sherlock asked, his eyes flicked across John's face to ensure he wasn't in pain. Judging that the 'oh' was a good one, Sherlock smiled and carefully pushed further in, all the way to the first knuckle before stilling.

He twisted his finger and startled at the noise which emanated from John’s throat, an almost pained whimper.

“Is it…” Sherlock asked, stopping his hand.

“No. No, don’t stop,” John begged, his eyes looking down pleadingly at Sherlock who looked on enraptured at John’s completely wrecked appearance.

John's cock was straining massively against his belly, leaking precome against the soft, blonde hairs of his stomach. Relishing in the sensations, John wiggled his hips to prompt Sherlock to continue, happy when Sherlock got the message and pushed all of the way in. His large, knobby knuckles stretching John's hole with each gentle movement as Sherlock attempted to acclimatise John to the sensation before pulling out and adding a second finger.

Holding on to the bedding with one hand, whilst the other held onto Sherlock's leg, John rocked and rolled his hips against Sherlock's fingers. The sensations were almost overwhelming, to finally have what he wanted after so long was mind-blowing and John watched with rapt attention as Sherlock scissored, stretched and opened John.

“Another,” John said after the awkward stretch diminished. The pleasure was beginning to radiate up his spine each time Sherlock unknowingly brushed against his prostate and John didn't want their first time to end with a prematurely splattered stomach.

Sherlock added more lubricant and worked in his third finger. It was a hard stretch and Sherlock could tell by John's face that he was wincing with the burn, but he gentled his touches, rubbing his thumb against John's perineum whilst his other hand stroked and teased the wet tip of his penis. John’s cock had started to soften with the burn, but with careful ministrations Sherlock soon had it back to full hardness.

Sherlock stretched John wide, enjoying the sensations of John’s hole fluttering around his fingers as he maintained a steady rhythm before leaning forward and pushing his lips against John's for a deep, tender kiss which left them both panting into one another’s mouths, so desperate to be close that John lifted his hand to cup the nape of Sherlock's neck, pushing their foreheads together.

The angle of Sherlock's fingers pressed against John's prostate and sent John moaning loudly, his hands clenching at whatever he could reach as his head spun with pleasure. Sherlock pulled back nervously before circling his fingers at the special spot, watching as John's eyes fluttered and rolled back.

“Oh. Okay stop...” John moaned, his entire body flushed prettily pink. “I need – There is a condom in the top drawer. Do you know how to put one on?”

Sherlock hesitated as he carefully slipped his fingers from John's body, wiping the slick lube onto the bedding which was met with a playful tut from John.

“No,” Sherlock admitted with a blush and a shrug.

John smiled reassuringly before reaching to the bedside table, pulling out a condom he quickly checked the date and ensured it wasn't ripped before reaching for Sherlock's cock and giving it a few gentle strokes, slicking the now plentiful precome along the shaft before ripping open the condom and sitting up so he could reach Sherlock's groin.

“Nip the end,” John said, showing Sherlock the correct technique as he ensured no bubbles remained in the end of the condom, “And then put it here...” he placed it on Sherlock's cock before rolling it down in one swift, well practiced movement.

Sherlock looked down at his penis with a chuckle. It looked ridiculous swollen and red blushed, pressing against the latex.

“Now, you'll need to put some lube on it. You can never have too much lube.” John smiled, lying back down against the mattress and pushing a pillow under his hips for a better position. “And then you're going to want to push yourself into me. Please be as slow and gentle as you can.”

“Remember your promise,” Sherlock spluttered quickly, looking down at John's spread legs “You'll hit me if I hurt you.”

“You're not going to hurt me,” John promised, reaching his hand down between their bodies to take Sherlock's cock in his palm. “Just be gentle.”

Sherlock swallowed with a gulp but allowed himself to be pulled towards John's waiting body, feeling the heat of John's hand and his body through the latex. The sensations were almost overwhelming but Sherlock focussed his brain, filtering out the distractions until he could only focus on John.

“Good.” John smiled, obviously seeing Sherlock relaxed posture as he pressed the detective's tip against his hole. John exhaled deeply, feeling a fluttering in his stomach as he looked up at Sherlock in the position he had been desperate to feel for years.

“I do love you,” Sherlock whispered out of the blue, leaning down to put his weight on his arms as he loomed over John, pushing their lips together as he carefully pushed an inch forward.

The stretch was more than John was expecting and he clamped his eyes closed, focussing on his breathing as Sherlock continued to push inside. Sherlock rolled his hips slightly and gasped as he passed through the first ring of muscle, feeling it tense and stretch as he pushed his way through. John hissed slightly but moved a hand to grab Sherlock’s hip as Sherlock slipped halfway inside, stretching John open wider. 

“Wait… wait,” John begged, his eyes tightly closed.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, his concern genuine and touching.

John nodded and bit his lower lip. “Just a bit intense.”

Sherlock moved to place soft kisses over John’s lips and face; his long fingers squeezing John’s from their grip beside them, soothing the older man as he adjusted to Sherlock’s size.

After a few moments, Sherlock stilled and ran a finger across John's cheekbone, over his nose and between his eyebrows. “You've scrunched up here...” he said, tapping the lines of concentration on John's brow. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No,” John immediately replied, opening his eyes and trying to relax. “It's just – a lot. A lot of sensation”

“For me too.” Sherlock smiled, a genuine and openly loving grin which made John's heart soar “You're very hot.”

“Keep going,” John said as he reached up to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck, forcing him down to push their foreheads together so their lips were only inches apart. Sharing the breath seemed somehow more intimate than kissing as Sherlock carefully and gently pushed and probed inside of John until he was fully sheathed in scalding hot heat.

“I'm in...” Sherlock whispered, looking down between their bodies. “All the way in.”

“I can feel it.” John smiled teasingly. “Okay, you can start to move.”

Sherlock rolled his hips again; pulling out slightly he pushed back in, inches at a time, slowly, slowly, slowly.

“God. I didn’t know...” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

“Me neither,” John admitted realising that he had never been so completely infatuated with a person before.

Sherlock wiggled and began to build a steady rhythm; it was still slow and tender but now the movements pushed John further up the bed, rocked him back and forth on Sherlock's cock.

Their lips met for deep and passionate kisses as they sighed and gasped into one another’s mouths, desperately chasing their release but determined for the event to last as long as possible.

John gasped as Sherlock’s tip hit against his prostate, arching his back he desperately tried to repeat the sensation, his legs wrapping around Sherlock’s bum as he pulled his lover down further onto his sturdy body, pushing more of them together as his groans began to get louder, his hands grabbing for Sherlock's shoulders as they made eye contact. Sherlock was sweating, his eyes burning brightly with desire as he thrust harder, losing himself in pleasure and desire as he leaned in for a messy, uncoordinated kiss that was more teeth than lips.

“Faster,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, allowing the younger man space to position himself better to push and thrust into John’s pliant and eager body. Sherlock pulled out slightly before pushing back in, angling his hips to thrust against John’s prostate on every pass, harder, deeper, faster, more, more, more.

“I need to – to – touch myself,” John moaned, eyes rolling back as he slipped a hand between their bodies to take his half-hard cock into his hand. The pain of penetration had passed to only pleasure and John could feel the orgasmic tingles rushing through his veins as he wrapped a hand around himself and began to stroke in time with Sherlock's thrusts.

“John...” Sherlock moaned, voice deeper and more wrecked than John had ever heard it. “Please…please come, I can't – I don't know how much longer I can hold on.”

“Yes,” John nodded, eyes meeting Sherlock's as his hand became a blur between their bodies. The residual lube mixed with precome and sweat helped and soon John was on the edge, blinking up with his jaw hanging open as he nodded wordlessly, clenching down hard on Sherlock's cock as the first stirrings of orgasm built.

“Sher – Sherlock…Sherlock I'm – Oh god, Oh fuck,” John chanted, eyes rolling back as he tensed hard and began to come, shooting hotly between their bodies in a dramatic arc which hit under his chin and soaked against Sherlock's nipples as he moved.

“John!” Sherlock wailed, his hips stuttering and becoming rough as he teetered on the brink of his peak. “Oh, John.”

John had barely floated back to earth before he was feeling Sherlock give one final thrust before stilling with a loud grunt and a shudder of his hips as he came hard into the condom between them. Sherlock dropped forward, kissing John roughly as he panted and whined under his breath as he rode out his orgasm, feeling his arms shaking with tension.

Managing to grab onto Sherlock's shoulder's, John smiled as Sherlock collapsed onto him with an “oomph” and a shiver of oversensitivity. Sherlock didn't stay there that long however, soon he was pushing himself to his knees to carefully pull his softening cock from John's body. John watched through pleasure slitted eyes as Sherlock probed at his bottom, checking his hole for tearing before the detective got up from the bed and peeled off the condom, tying it off before throwing it in the bin and reaching for one of their shirts to clean himself with.

Once he was reasonably clean, Sherlock lay back on the bed and wiped off John's belly and chin with a smile, leaning down to kiss John's forehead, nose and then his lips before wrapping an arm around John's naked waist and snuggling into John's side.

John placed his hand over Sherlock's larger one, watching as Sherlock entwined their fingers together and then turned John's hand to look at his wrist. There, in a pink silver scar was the evidence of another suicide attempt.

Running his thumb across the scar, Sherlock somehow managed to shuffle himself closer to John. “I'll never leave you again.”

“I know.” John smiled, turning to kiss Sherlock's forehead. “I know.”


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cutest end I've ever done.


End file.
